


The Lamps In The Dark

by WisdomOfCelestials



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Book 6: The Winds of Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27872461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WisdomOfCelestials/pseuds/WisdomOfCelestials
Summary: One-shot set after Theon's Sample Chapter in the Winds of Winter. Mainly features events in the North, including and set after the Battle in the Ice. Book-compliant.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 5





	The Lamps In The Dark

Theon  
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“Then do the deed yourself, Your Grace.” The chill in Asha’s voice made Theon shiver in his chains. “Take him out across the lake to the islet where the weirwood grows, and strike his head off with that sorcerous sword you bear. That is how Eddard Stark would have done it. Theon slew Lord Eddard’s sons. Give him to Lord Eddard’s gods. The old gods of the north. Give him to the tree. “  
And suddenly there came a wild thumping, as the maester’s ravens hopped and flapped inside their cages, their black feathers flying as they beat against the bars with loud and raucous caws. “The tree,” one squawked, “the tree, the tree,” whilst the second screamed only, “Theon, Theon, Theon.”  
Theon Greyjoy smiled. They know my name, he thought. But not half-a-heartbeat later, he perceived a thing that brought another chill unto him, a chill deeper than the one that had took him not moments ago , Stannis had smiled too, the same strange smile that he had borne upon his hard, rigid face, when Theon had spoken about the angry weasel, Hosteen Frey. Almost a mockery of the smile he bore on his own face.  
The King spoke again, his mouth twitching, “Aye, the old gods of the north, those whom the most fervent of the red god’s band amidst my camp would denounce as northern demons of ice and snow. But as I said, I am aware of the fact that not all my men worship the same god, and so you too must understand what would happen if I were to sacrifice the man solely to the weirwood.”  
Asha shook her head, “They are your men, they have always been your men, all the way from Dragonstone, Your Grace, and so you can scarce blame me if I am doubtful that they will consider abandoning you, on merely being denied a sacrifice when they have already burnt four men.”  
There was glint in King Stannis’ eyes, when he spoke, “Aye, they will not, but for the moment, let us set your brother’s fate aside. Tell me, kraken, what do you know of Torgon Greyiron?”  
Theon glanced at his sister, and noted that her mouth was left slightly agape at this sudden change of topic, but he looked at her eyes, and noticed a hard glint in them, as if she had been made aware of this topic, prior to the King’s own questioning. Just as he was about to open his mouth, she quickly shut her own, and opened it yet again, this time to speak in a monotonous droning, with an undercurrent of anger, as if she was mouthing a tale that she herself had heard not too long ago  
“Torgon Greyiron was the king's eldest son. But the king was old and Torgon restless, so it happened that when his father died he was raiding along the Mander from his stronghold on Greyshield. His brothers send no word to him but instead quickly called a Kingsmoot, thinking that one of them would be chosen to wear the driftwood crown. But the captains and the kings chose Urragon Goodbrother to rule instead. The first thing the new king did was command that all the sons of the old king be put to death, and so they were. After that men called him Badbrother, though in truth they'd been no kin of his. He ruled for almost two years, until Torgon came home and said the Kingsmoot was unlawful since he had not been there to make his claim. Badbrother had proved to be as mean as he was cruel and had few friends left upon the isles. The priests denounced him, the lords rose against him, and his own captains hacked him into pieces. Torgon the Latecomer became the king and ruled for forty years.”  
The King seemed pleased, and his mouth had loosened ever so slightly when he spoke, “Aye, I would turn your brother from Theon Turncloak into Theon the Latecomer, even if he had no chance to win, only to make the Crow’s Eye’s victory invalid, and sow discord amongst those, who ironically, do not sow.”  
Theon began cackling, as soon as Stannis finished speaking, and he began to speak, spitting out words amidst his cackles, “You would make a near-eunuch the Lord Reaper of the Iron Isles? Truly, your Lord of Light prepares magnificent japes! And yet you cannot, for you mean to sacrifice me, whether it be spreading my entrails amongst the weirwood tree, or burning me at the stake, I have never seen a jape as brilliant as this one!” and he continued to cackle, not caring a bit for the King tightening his grip around the pommel of his sword.  
But Stannis did not pull out his sword of light and remove his head; the King loosened his grip yet again, and spoke, while grinding his teeth “Aye, you, whether a neutered Kraken or not, would be put forward as a candidate for their Kingsmoot, though I would rather that the Reader was elected, allowing him to strike at your Uncles. You coming back from the grave missing so many parts would certainly bring doubts about your legitimacy, but your sister here would be able to vouch for you, being the Prince of the Iron Isles” Theon noted that Stannis spat those last few words out, “While in truth both of you shall cast your votes for the Reader.”  
Asha spoke, before Theon could further cast laughter to this plan, “If Your Grace would spare my brother, I would swear an oath to do your bidding and elect my nuncle, but Your Grace spoke that my brother must die. I do not see a way, wherein which we can do both. “  
The King gave a long look at the both of them, and Theon rattled his chains in fear, for he knew that Stannis’ threats were not half so deadly as his silences. At long last Stannis spoke, but it was not directed to either of the Krakens, “Ser Richard, bring Arnolf Karstark in here, along with his cane and him in his garb, but ensure he is tied in iron chains the same as the Kraken here.”  
As the Moth-Knight scrambled to obey, and three men-at-arms walked within from outside the tower to take his position as guards inside, Theon wondered what laid in store for him, and the haggard, shrivelled, cadaverous Arnolf Karstark, his twin in looks, if not in neither birth nor age.  
The Karstark was brought in shortly, still dressed in his garb and cane in hand, despite all of his limbs being securely trussed in iron manacles, but with a vicious look on his face, and a roll of cloth stuffed in his mouth. The men-at-arms yet again exchanged positions with the Moth-Knight, before Stannis drew his sword, powerful light rippling across its surface, first a vivid crimson, and then turning into milder saffron, before again blazing into a brilliant white.  
For a moment, he thought that Stannis would slay the two of them with his sword, his Lightbringer, in one clean sweep, and be done with the both of them, and it would seem his sister had the same thought, as she let loose a sound, which sounded as to be both a gasp of desperation as well as a shout of finality. He resigned himself to his death, almost welcoming it, as he noted Asha had tried to move forward, the Moth Knight, Richard Horpe, wrenched her back to her position, his grip tightening, around her elbow in doing so.  
The King spoke then, “This sword, Lightbringer they call it, a name that would cause men to believe that all it is capable of is exhibiting light-shows of varying intensity, but Melisandre assures me, it is imbued with some of her own magic, which includes the art of glamours. She turned a Wildling chieftain, the self-styled Lord of Bones, into the King beyond the Wall, and burned him, and I played along, with her plan, essaying the role that I believed Mance Rayder had burned, when it was Rattleshirt, who bore the face of Mance Rayder, crafted from Sorcery, as he burnt as an offering to the Red God. Mance Rayder himself was turned into a singer, to sow discord amongst the Bastard of Bolton’s forces, and attempt to rescue the last Stark readily available to us.” And then King Stannis clenched his jaw, as he stared at Karstark, “You would have had me build rams, ladders, and siege towers, in a fool’s attempt to take Winterfell and die, but no, I commissioned a series of Catapults, as soon as my forces had arrived at this crofter’s village.”  
A hint of fear and confusion had appeared on the haggard Karstark’s face, and Stannis had a grim look of satisfaction on his face as he continued, “Where are these catapults, you would ask? And why Catapults and not Trebuchets if I meant to breach the walls of Winterfell, you would also ask? And you would finally ask as to why have I not made my move, if I already have siege weapons to do so, and why I waited until Bolton’s forces took the offensive against me, seemingly rendering them useless?”  
The King had a long gaze about him as he continued, “Aye, I could have taken the Dreadfort, and turned my campaign in the North into a protracted series of Sieges and Counter-Sieges, resulting in Bolton’s forces eventually winning by virtue of numbers but I chose this location, amidst this blizzard that has crippled the North, not because of a vision I had seen in the flames of R’hllor, but because my long years of winning battles that I have had slim chances of winning have shown me that the map is not what the land is, and this is where Bolton’s vanguard shall meet its end. “  
Before Theon could speak to interrupt him, Stannis’ sword took on a hue of blinding, vivid, velvet, as he moved it upward, to finally, place it on Theon’s left shoulder. For a moment, he believed, that Stannis had succumbed to a madness, and he would knight him then and there, but rather than place it on his other side, the Sword went to the right shoulder of the Karstark, turning completely around, and a strange gas the same shade of the sword began to emanate from the Karstark, and his own body.  
To prevent any of it entering his orifices, Theon closed both his eyes and his nose, until the strange feel of the Gas washing about him dissipated, before disappearing completely, before finally opening his eyes slowly and tentatively. What Theon saw in front of him near caused his eyes to jump out of their skulls, as along with seeing Asha press her hands against her mouth with an expression of surprise on her face, he saw his own dishevelled face, broken after hours and days of torture at the hands of Ramsay, staring back at him in an expression of horror that he would have wagered good coin on that he himself was baring, from where Arnolf Karstark’s face should have been.  
It would take a particularly foolish monkey from the deep jungles of Sothoryos, to not understand that they had taken on each other’s appearance, and he would not need a mirror to confirm so, due to Asha’s own expression at facing Theon.  
The Moth-Knight has little surprise on his face, indicating he was well aware of this plan, and his so called nominal-belief in the Lord of Light so as to suit his needs was in reality, a true devotion. Stannis nodded to Ser Richard, and the knight called in the other three-men-arms, which Theon now noted, and cursed himself for not having noted previously, wore several badges of the Lord of Light’s favour, indicating that they too were fervent believers in whatever plan was being enacted. The four strong men, whose strength was derived from devotion rather than haleness borne from food, quickly brought Theon down from his position on the wall, and forced him to the hard, cold, stone ground of the Watchtower, along with the Castellan of Karhold, while they stripped both of them of their clothes, and forced them to wear each-others.  
They pulled Theon upwards with a force near capable of breaking him, leaving him bearing not only the Karstark’s face, but his garb and his cane too, however, with bruises on his arms, and still shackled in manacles.  
The King spoke, “You have your brother, and I have my sacrificial Kraken of king’s blood. The Karstarks claim distant descent from the Starks of Yore, the Kings of Winter, being as they are, a cadet branch of House Stark, allowing for their King’s blood to suffice for what I have in mind. The erstwhile Castellan of Karhold shall accompany you and your ironborn to Torrhen’s square, along with a quarter his men, securing its release in exchange for safe passage back to Pyke. You will make Theon Turncloak into Theon the Latecomer, but shall cast your votes for Rodrik Harlow, your own nuncle. Now if you shall excuse me, I shall have to explain to the Wull and Artos Flint as to what I expect them to do, with their garrons and their bearpaws, and allow them the satisfaction that their beloved Ned Stark’s son’s killer, the traitor and kinslayer Theon Greyjoy’s entrails shall be given to their Weirwood, as an offering to their Old Gods, but which in turn shall then be burnt as not only an offering to the Lord of Light but as the lynchpin of the plan that shall follow. The glamour on him will only expire once you reach Torrhen’s Square, but I shall have your oath anyway, Asha of House Greyjoy.  
Just as the King was about to turn and return to his seat, signalling the men in the room to escort him and Theo… Arnolf Karstark outside the Tower, Asha spoke, “Your Grace, I will swear this oath to you, but there is something I believe you should know, as I shall not allow my brother’s reputation to be besmirched. He is no kin-slayer.” The fake Theon had already left the building, escorted by the men at arms before Asha had spoken, but he remained, along with the Moth-Knight.  
The King grinded his teeth audibly, “Aye, the Stark boys were no blood-brothers of his, but he was their foster-brother, rendering him their kin in that manner. Unless you mean to tell me that they are alive, to which I would point you to the gates of Winterfell, upon whose spikes their heads are mounted, coated in thick tar.”  
Asha shook her head, and spoke, “When I initially saw Theon, when the Iron Banker presented him as a gift, he spoke to me, told me of his tale of Reek, the Dreadfort, Kyra and keys, and how he had saved Arya Stark. He also spoke to me about how he had never wanted to do any harm to Bran or Rickon, the Stark boys, he told me how his predecessor of the title of Reek, in reality, Ramsay Snow who had worn that disguise, as the Reek before him was slain, had forced him to kill those boys in an effort to consolidate his own power. Theon said, “I am no kinslayer”, and then spoke about him sleeping with Theon’s dogs, before continuing that, “The swords were gone. Four, I think, or five. I do not recall. The stone kings are angry”.”  
She paused to catch her breath, but Theon saw the King, who had a hard expression on his face, along with a mild look of incredulity. Theon finally broke, and he spoke, tears inter-mingled with each word, “They were only Miller’s boys, the Miller at Acorn Water. Lord Ramsay, under the guise of Reek then, flayed the children and I presented their tarred heads as those of the missing Starks. I found out much later, when I bore the mantle of Reek, that they had hid in the crypts, and had escaped at some point. I believe I am the only one to know that they are alive, and not lost in the width of the North, Your Grace, though, I am sure, that Lady Barbrey Dustin, has an idea greater than an inkling of the truth, while Ramsay Bolton would know he did not flay true Starks, he would not have told his father for fear of repercussion for his failure. The Lady Dustin and Roger Ryswell, mayhaps would be capable of turning the Cerwyns, Tallharts, Whoresbane, Hornwoods,and the Slates, along with Manderly against the Boltons, if Your Grace was seen winning against the Frey Host, though the Bolton Men outnumber theirs, in Winterfell.”  
King Stannis mused this and spat, “Aye, I would grant clemency to everyone except Manderly, he who, butchered my Lord Hand, and mounted his head on the walls of White Harbor for the Freys to gloat over. Now get out of my sight, you may not be a Kinslayer, but a Turncloak you remain, and the location of the Stark Boys will remain unknown, I fear. Now Lady Asha, you will swear your oath.”  
Theon was escorted out of the room; with a weight that he did not know that he had borne having fallen off his chest, allowing him to breathe the cold wind more freely. His sister had secured his life, and he would essay the role that King Stannis had granted him, that of the bent and twisted castellan of Karhold, with wearing his skin, and his cloak of fine grey wool, and its sable and clasp. He had thought of the castellan’s garment as a rich one, on a poor excuse for a man. The Drowned God, it would seem, loved his irony, as the same rich garment, was now borne on another poor excuse of a man.

The Son of the Crossing  
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Hosteen had never had much love for his half-brother, but the death of a Frey in a pit not a dozen metres away from the safety of Winterfell was an insult to the Twins that had in turn stoked a fire within him that could only be satisfied by the taking of the Crowfood’s head, the Whoresbane be damned. The vanguard of Mors Umber, whether it could even be called so, had peeled away from underneath Winterfell, but they had lost atleast a fourth of their number, and he had slain a dozen of the Umber green boys himself.  
To be sure, the greybeards under Hother Umber would surely have some relatives hither and tither amidst the corpses, but under their lord, they had maintained their loyalty, and he had assigned them to guard the baggage train of the Frey Vanguard, an hour’s ride behind them, once Bolton had decided to wash his hands of the Umbers, being as they were, the only house openly split in twain in allegiance, and too dangerous to house in Winterfell, lest they turn onto the Bolton Host.  
The Manderly host, of Three Hundred Men, all Horse, were dispatched from the East, and the couriers between their two marches, indicated that they were making slower progress than expected, being as they were, a further distance than even the baggage train, an entire six hours’ ride away. He cursed them, as they bore little love for the Freys, especially due to the Red Wedding, and they were no doubt of the mind that the Freys should bloody themselves against the Stag’s weak host, before they would arrive and finish off the stragglers, taking Frey troops with them.  
What exacerbated matters was, that the mountain savages of the North, even more uncouth than the rest of the North, had performed harrowing manoeuvres against the front of the advancing Frey host, taking pot-shots with arrows and light spears at the Frey troops, and melting away before any counter-sorties could be performed. These actions, which were annoying more than harmful if anything did not kill many Frey troops, but there was a grumbling amidst the men, who wanted to chase after these mountain clans, and avenge the insult to their chivalry. But despite the futility of their attacks in hurting Frey troops, Hosteen was not an idiot so as to not understand what this meant for the battle at hand. While the only major losses were seven knights who had charged after the retreating clansmen and had not returned, the only thing that the Frey host had lost, was time, which Stannis’ forces would lack, being as they were, starving, and unhorsed.  
Secondly, the fact that the garron-mounted skirmishers with weak bows, and light spears were chosen for this harrowing manoeuvre by a military commander as highly recognized as Stannis Baratheon himself, indicated a military impotence on behalf of Stannis, perhaps a telling sign that Stannis’ equipment was also sub-par, which would only further simplify the fact that the Frey host could easily smash through the lines.  
Hosteen loathe as he was to form up with Manderly and the Umbers, the men would appreciate more troops could not retreat and form up with them. But he could not wait, as if he did, he may lose men to those pestilent clansmen. The same clansmen who ride weak horses, who’s only redeeming factor were an increased mobility in the snow, could in no way, shape, or form, stand up to the Frey heavy horse. The only logical action, would be to advance, as then he could not only hinder their attacks, but outright deny them, as well as perhaps defeat their weakened remnants, minimizing his own casualties. There was also the additional fact that they were situated in a position between two large lakes, which would further inhibit any movements by Stannis’ Hosts, allowing Hosteen to crush their lines with perhaps one or two charges of lances.  
There was also the matter that Stannis had so graciously, lit up the path they would take, as he had set-alight what the Maester of the Karstarks, wily traitors to Stannis that they were, had informed to be a beacon fire on the watchtower for the village. This was a good portent for the Frey troops, less so for Stannis’. For what was probably a measure to keep the morale of Stannis’ troops high, would only serve to bring about their destruction at Hosteen’s hands.  
With visibility, reduced to ten yards, it would seem the Warrior himself was watching over the Frey Host so as to allow them to smash Stannis’ heretics and the Mountain Pagans; as he had turned the holy symbol of the fire-worshipping lunatics into the only one landmark that would guide them to victory, the tower itself.  
Over the next fifteen minutes, as he assembled the Frey troops so as to prepare them for the charge, lest another harrowing manoeuvre be wrought by the Skirmishers, the blizzard momentarily dimmed in intensity, making Hosteen peer ahead, viewing banners of a crowned black stag, within a flaming red heart on a bright yellow field, at the flanks of Stannis’ seat of power. At the central main lines of Stannis’ host, he viewed the White Hand upon a grey inverted pall, on paly grey and black, of House Flint of the Mountains, the six green thistles over a yellow field of House Norrey, and the three wooden buckets, brown on blue of House Wull. This was all that they could make out before the blizzard once again set in.  
It would seem that Stannis had entrusted his centre to the Northern Clansmen, a stupid move for such a vaunted military commander, though he mused, that the Battle of the Blackwater, also showed that Stannis was not as competent as everyone claimed. While the clansmen would no doubt possess skill, while blustering in their unruly passion, they would break under duress, as savages were wont to do.  
Seeing that the Frey host had formed up to the best that they could on the deep snow-drifts, he signalled his assent to his lieutenant, Ser Roger Rivers, a bastard son of House Charlton, sworn to the Twins. Trumpets sounded amongst them, tiny and brazen, soon swallowed by hundreds of shouts. Ahoooooooooooooooooooooo. The call rolled across the white snow banks, and marching hooves of the Frey heavy horse thundered around him as he sounded the attack. Satisfied by what he saw, he led the charge onto Stannis’ lines. Five hundred knights followed his lead, as they charged down the snow-bank, straight to the Baratheon’s seat of power, and as they thundered across the battlefield, they came amidst the lines of the clansmen. Half a dozen knights were turned into pincushions by the clansmen, falling from their destriers and palfreys, struck by dozens of arrows. But the charge was a success, disarray was evident amidst the lines of the enemy, and the clansmen were scrambling to fall back to a better position, but were still firing their arrows from atop their garrons, as a few dozen footmen held the line, attempting to wrestle with knights on horseback.  
Hosteen himself buried his war lance in a particularly well-armoured north-man, the eight foot length of turned ash’s tipped steel point drove through the foot-soldier’s steel cuirass, and the forward momentum pushed him into the ground. As he drew his long-axe, he began to slice, and stab any who committed the folly of crossing his path, as he raced past their lines. However, despite the success of the charge, the footmen who were attempting to wrestle, were nearly succeeding, as he saw one of them bury his dagger deep in one of his knight’s throat.  
This would not do, and so he reformed the knights, to swing back around and charge yet again, breaking through those who remained from the back, smashing the remnants of the clansmen lines, as the first elements of the foot formed up with the cavalry, onto the land bridge.  
As Hosteen wheeled around yet again for a charge to break the lines of the retreating clansmen yet again, he viewed that the rear elements of the Frey Host would soon join the attack. Allowing him to make a deeper push, and so he goaded his mighty destrier ahead, as the hundreds of knights and foot-soldiers followed his lead, towards the tower where Stannis had made his home, a long fall from Dragonstone.  
There was little resistance as the Knights smashed through what was a pitiful attempt by the mountain men to reform their defensive lines, and they retreated yet again, yet still attempting to pose a threat by firing arrows and short spears amidst his troops. A few even found their mark, the odd throat of a horse or a man, or their sides, suddenly sprouted a spear shaft or an arrow, causing them to fall. Atleast two dozen casualties. This would not do.  
He called loudly, “LOOSE!”, and the archers amongst his footmen, complied as the order was relayed from lieutenant to lieutenant. And the arrows found their mark, whispering and twirling through the air, with their goose-down feathers guiding their path in taking out a number of clansmen. He continued to approach the tower and its fire that Stannis’ heretics so worshipped, his axe singing the song of battle. Once he had heard Ser Barristan the Bold, the erstwhile kingsguard of three kings, be described as a painter who only painted in one colour, red, and that is how he felt, as his axe cleaved skulls and carved men. But as they approached the tower, the unexpected happened, the flame which was burning atop the tower, suddenly took on a much brighter hue of crimson, with the flames arcing hundreds of feet into the air, in a dark crimson not unlike the red comet that had been, but this was not what had thoroughly confounded Hosteen, as it could be explained away as the desperate attempts by R’hllor cultists to beseech their god for aid.  
No, the blizzard had come to a sudden halt, no snow fell, the winds did not chill him to the bones, the clouds peeled away in the yellow sky, indicating that it was the afternoon, he almost shuddered at this atop the destrier as he continued his charge, noting that the clouds were moving away with such gusto, and had already crossed so many leagues in half-a-heartbeat, it were almost as if they feared the fire.  
He looked down from the fire, and noted the surroundings; they were looking, not at a watch-tower, but sharply elevated patches of land that rose from amidst the snow. And what he saw burning, was the weirwood tree, the largest tree on the largest patch, along with timber felled from other trees added to its kindling. Amidst the flames, he could make out the sigil of House Greyjoy atop a banner burning midst the flames of the Weirwood, with what appeared to be a corpse on it.  
As he rode his destrier, he further noticed that the banners they’d spotted in the momentary respite that had preceded the charge were not on either sides of the land bridge, but rather, on two other patches of land that jutted from the rest of the land. So they had the high ground, he mused to himself, but then he remembered the map of the land, and how the patches of the land corresponded to the islands on one of the lakes. A sudden fear took hold of him, as he attempted to slow the charge, but their momentum kept carrying them forward. He saw a man on what would technically be the beach head of the island, and even at this distance, he recognized the visage of Stannis Baratheon. He knew that the gambit of slaying Baratheon was their only hope, and so he redoubled the speed of the charge.  
But then, the man drew his sword, and it glowed, red, yellow, and orange, alive with light, he had heard rumours of Stannis’ fabled magical sword, but had dismissed it as wildfire-drive mummery, but even a jester knew, that wildfire burned green, not red, yellow nor orange. Stannis raised the blade above his head, and a second sun was born on the small, unremarkable island, three days ride from winterfell. He was blinded instantly, and his horse was too. He could hear horses around him whinnying in terror, as they continued their charge, bereft of sight, and there was no doubt that some riders would have been thrown from their mounts, he knew this as his own destrier was attempting to do so.  
As he charged forward, being the only thing he could do, blinded and rattled, an arrow pierced his vambrace, and another found its way into his shoulder. He could hear the alarmed shouts of men who further found arrows in various parts of their body, and could do little to avoid them, having been made completely unaware of their bearings. The withering rain of shafts did not yield, and further men around and behind him died. As his eyes slowly struggled to return unto him some measure of vision, he noted that the ground…no…. the ice below them turned red and pink and orange, as the light danced across the snow.  
The mummer’s lightshow aside, he noted that a large part of the foot had formed around the remnants of the cavalry, as he still tried to regain his vision. A man next to him, whose name he did not know, screamed “CATAPULTS TO OUR LEFT, NEAR THE TOWER!” Another man screamed, “CATAPULTS NEAR THE BURNING TREE AS WELL!”  
He looked to the left, and sure enough, as soon as his vision returned, he was greeted with the arms of the catapults rising three, six, fourteen, and hundreds of stones climbed high into the yellow sky, each one near as large as a man’s head, and when they fell, they did not stop to a halt as they would with solid ground, no, this time, the ground… the ice yielded, and cracked, and fell away, taking with them, dozens of living men, and sending up great gouts of water.  
There was to be no respite, more stones sailed through the sky, and they fell yet again, crashing through shields and steel-plate as if they were so many reams of paper, and turning the men who bore them into bone and pulp and gristle. Flights of arrows whispered through them in the midst of the splashing water. As he begin to turn around, trying to rally his men into either a charge or a retreat, he noted another volley careening through the air, and he wondered where the Karstarks were.  
This time however, quantity seemed to have been forgone for size, as the projectiles were large, covered in flaming pitch. For a moment he thought to himself in a queer satisfactory manner, “Atleast it isn’t wildfire”, but then he remembered what he had just learnt, that they were standing on ice, and so, the mighty Hosteen Frey pissed himself, with the urine travelling down his legs, and onto the body of his horse, before beginning to freeze. With a grinding, splintering, tearing crash, the layer of ice beneath them split asunder, accompanied by a shattering scream that no man could ever produce.  
“Away” he screamed himself hoarse, “We must retreat!” Then he heard a short, sharp woof, as if a pup had whispered into his ear, and half a heartbeat later, the ice-sheet completely fell apart, taking him with it. Fifty feet high, he could still see the light of Stannis’ sorcerous sword as the heavy castle-forged plate he wore pulled him to the depths of the river. And as he turned in hopes of swimming while grasping someone else, he saw dozens, nay; hundreds of soldiers had accompanied him in their little swim, hopelessly struggling to come above the water. The lake itself seemed to boil and freeze in its bed, and the remnants of the ice sheet above his head seemed to be reforming with gusto unlike anything else as it froze over. And as the water filled his lungs when he could hold his breath no more, he knew what they would call the nameless lake, “Frey’s Folly”.  
============================================================================  
The True Baratheon King  
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Everyone in Westeros knew that Stannis was one of the few lords who had ever had to experience famine, but there was a queer satisfaction in knowing that he was perhaps the only lord to have faced it twice, and yet come out victorious, despite the machinations of all who would see him perish, whether it were the Fat Flower and his Feasts, or the Abomination that was Ramsay Snow, he had weathered their storms well enough.  
Aye, Snow brought with him a Storm of Snow, and he was not deaf to the whispers amongst the more superstitious of his men that the Blizzard had been the Bolton’s work, but whether it was a storm of feasts, or a storm of ice, or a storm of swords, he had been born in a castle designed to weather a storm of the design of the gods, and he would weather any storm just the same, and he had done exactly so.  
There was something to be said about the mockery that he could not ignore, as he recalled what Ser Cortnay Penrose, erstwhile commander of Storm’s End’s garrison had said, “Bring on your storm – and recall, if you do, the name of this castle.” Fitting words that would describe the Baratheon tenacity to survive under any odds, spoken by a man who had refused to recognize his rightful liege lord and king.  
Aye, Cortnay Penrose and Renly’s peach, both were events that had always rankled him whenever he thought about them, though his younger brother’s fruit of fancy had taken centre-stage most of the time. He had only confided about the peach to the Red Woman and his Onion Knight, one whose loyalty could not be bought, and one whose loyalty was borne from prophecy’s teats. And one whose head was mounted on a spike on the gates of White Harbour, the Fat Man’s home.  
The battle against the Freys had been won, as near all two thousands of Frey’s men had succumbed to an icy grave five days prior, following their master Hosteen’s stupidity. Stannis however, had lost only four hundred men, three hundred of which were Northmen, and a hundred of his Southron veterans who had followed him loyally since Blackwater Bay.  
To be sure, the Karstark Troops had been put to good use, as a hundred were sent with the Ironmen and their ‘castellan’ to Torrhen’s square from where they would secure the Iron Islands at the best, and sow discord at the very least. Half of the north-men who had perished were Karstark soldiers too, further proving what he had believed of their innocence in the Karstark’s plot. Those who remained, had been given the choice to return to Karhold or stay with Stannis’ host, and they had chosen the latter.  
His host’s hunger was quickly assuaged, as the men he had sent to capture the baggage train had done so bloodlessly, as Hother Umber had joined his greybeards to Crowfood’s green boys, adding four hundred more to his number along with the vast food stores of the Frey baggage train. He would not be lax and face starvation for a third time, for he ordered what horses could be fished out from Frey’s Folly, as the men were wont to call it, would be turned into jerky for future usage.  
He had near five thousand and seven hundred men, while a greater number than he had fought the Battle in the Ice with, still not near enough to take Winterfell. The few remaining Frey troops had surrendered without a fight, and had been interrogated for what they knew, which had revealed that Bolton was holed up in Winterfell with four thousand men of his own, and roughly two and a half thousand men of Dustin, Tallhart, Cerwyn, Hornwood, Slate and Locke loyalty.  
He knew what must be done to break the back of the Boltons, and the men who followed him, bet hey Southron or Northron, and had enough faith in his capability to follow him in his plans, and a major part of this plan was to take Castle Cerwyn, near the western branch of the White Knife, for it was half a day’s ride from Winterfell, and a stout keep for its moderate size. Of the soldiers who followed him, none were as ill-equipped as the mountain clans who were clad in animal hides and so he had seen to it that they had been re-outfitted, with the bodies of the Frey men being fished out for their armour, as these corpses were bearing near enough armour to outfit near all clansmen Though those he had selected to be scouts and outriders still eschewed armour for their warm hides and bear-paws.  
They had briskly marched westwards, and had come upon Castle Cerwyn two days prior, and the small garrison lead by Medger Cerwyn’s brother Kyle Cerwyn had surrendered without a fight, not only because a majority of their remaining troops were in Winterfell, but because they bore a grudge against the Boltons for slaying their liege lord Cley Cerwyn.  
Aye, Bolton had spread the news far and wide that it was Theon Turncloak who had slaughtered the Cerwyn-Cassel host, but there had been survivors of the massacre who had reported to their liege lords, but who could do little but believe the falsehoods so as to not draw the ire of the Flayed Men.  
Within a few hours of them taking Castle Cerwyn, Stannis was treated to both good news and bad, the good news was that Dagmer Cleftjaw had ceded Torrhen’s square, which in turn allowed him to reclaim all of the north west of the kingsroad, without a prolonged series of sieges and avoiding the Boltons. The Tallharts too would have received this news, while Asha Greyjoy had sent him a missive that she would be returning the Glover captives at Ten Towers unto his custody, which was further incentive for any Glover Men in Winterfell to consider where their loyalties laid.  
The bad news however, was that Bolton would not be allowing him time to consolidate his forces, and had dispatched all of the troops not sworn directly to him, as well as a thousand Bolton men, to re-take Castle Cerwyn and in turn, Deepwood Motte and Torrhen’s Square. While there was always the chance that the host would turn on the Bolton soldiers accompanying them, Stannis was no fool, for he knew Bolton would be keeping noble hostages so as to force the hands of whoever were sent to dispatch him. This would require all of his attention to find a solution to.  
There were also a few more troubling matters that couriers from the Kingsroad had brought, quite unwittingly to him, that the Stormlands were besieged by the Golden Company, Jon Connington, and a boy who claimed to be Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of his Name, and Rhaegar’s son. Whether he was a pretender, a true Targaryen, or a Blackfyre descendant mattered little, for it meant another claimant was fighting the war in the South, which, while meant that the Tyrells and Lannisters could not aid their Bolton allies, also meant it was another foe he would have to deal with, though a small part of him whispered treacherously that the boy would be the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, as the Targaryen claim was wont to supersede the Baratheon claim, despite the shared blood of Valyria both houses possessed. This same part wished to return to the Wall, board his ships yet again, and declare for the Targaryen, allowing him to deal with the wound he possessed for having forgone duty to the Crown to follow duty to his family.  
But he had crushed such thoughts swiftly, for both the Baratheons as well as the Targaryens had claimed the throne via right of conquest, and more likely than not, the boy would be a pretender or a Blackfyre rather than Elia Martell’s babe whose head had been smashed in by the Mountain.  
The Martells were yet another conundrum that he could scarce think about, as they had not done anything major in-so-far, though Melisandre claimed that a sun with a spear, which could only be a Martell would be attempting to claim a great beast of fire and scales when she had looked into the fires the day before he had left the Wall. This description of the beast meant that it could only be a dragon. And the only dragons in the living world, belonged to Daenerys Targaryen, one whose birth could not be questioned, as he had failed to capture her and her brother, so many years ago, in their escape from Dragonstone. But for such a hot-blooded people, to attempt to steal away one of Daenerys’ dragons, instead of neither avenging their beloved Red Viper, nor helping his sister’s son indicated that Doran Martell may be planning something on a larger scale, though what that may be was unknown.  
Dorne was not a populous nation, but they had brought ten thousand pikes to bear at the Battle of the Trident, and if they chose to go to war, being as they were, untouched in a similar fashion as to the Vale, and a majority of the Reach, whoever they decided to side with would be able to prolong the war for years. But this was a problem for another day, and a lord who was similarly playing the game, could be found far closer to his own position, the fat man, Wyman Manderly’s host which the Frey remnants had sworn had left at the same time as them, was no-where to be seen, and they were not accompanying the force Bolton was sending to besiege Castle Cerwyn. If Manderly meant to turn the North into a three-way battlefield, though he questioned himself as to where Manderly would get these soldiers from to fight such a battle, or as to why he would do so then the dynamics in the North would change, and he may have to either flee, or fight a final battle.  
Of his commanders, Richard Horpe had lost his left hand but was alive all the same, Godry Farring had taken a vicious blow to the head and was insensate, but there was good hope he would recover, especially with the Maester-in-Training at Castle Cerwyn tending to his wounds. Mors Umber and Hother Umber were in full command of their faculties and were unharmed, while Brandon Norrey had taken a dirk to his stomach, and was also recovering. Hugo Wull and the other mountain Chieftains were well to do, and even boisterous at the victory they’d won, and having captured the armour they bore.  
Of Rolland Storm at Dragonstone, he had learnt from an intercepted missive, that though the Lannister-Tyrell forces under Loras Tyrell’s command, had captured Dragonstone, though with a thousand lost lives, and the severe injury of Loras Tyrell, Rolland Storm had made away with what remained of the fleet stationed there, along with some of the garrison, and vast chunks of some material, that Stannis knew to be Obsidian and was seen heading North, and along with the missives were orders for the Manderlys to intercept the fleet so as to prevent them from reaching Eastwatch-by-the-sea.  
Stannis had cursed when he had found this out, for it would only serve to harm his reputation in the South, and perhaps help to hurt his cause, though his victory over the Freys may galvanize some Riverlords to covertly provide support for him or declare support to re-gain their liege lord, provided they find out.  
As he was sorting through the vast reams of information that Castle Cerwyn possessed that he had had to make do without during his stay at the Wall, and reading through them, the page that had been waiting upon him outside the door, spoke to him, “Your Grace, Lord Mors Umber wishes to meet with you, should I let him in immediately, or bid his Lordship to wait?”  
Stannis raised his eyes to the boy, and saw the boy gulp at him levelling his attention towards him. Ignoring this, he spoke, setting his jaw to a neutral position, “Send Lord Umber in, I would want to know what he has to say.”  
The page bobbed his head up and down hastily, in an excited impression of a bow, and let in the Lord Umber, while stepping outside again. Stannis gave the man a curt nod, and directed him to take a seat. The Crowfood was an old man, but yet remained huge and powerful, with a ruddy face and a shaggy white beard. For his audience today, he had eschewed his leather eye-patch it would seem, instead wearing a chunk of dragon glass.  
Knowing the man’s tendencies to be similar to his deceased elder brother, Stannis spoke, “Shall I pour you a glass of rum, Lord Umber?”  
The large man however, surprisingly shook his head, and spoke, “Your Grace, my scouts have spotted the first elements of the Bolton Host ten leagues away from the opposite bank of the White Knife. But they report it seems to be a party bearing a flag of parley, though the main host is not far behind.”  
Stannis clenched his jaw at this, and spoke, “What of their troop formations My Lord? Loathe as I am to entertain oathbreakers such as the Boltons, I will not sink to their level and slaughter a party seeking to parley. But I would still know how they seem to be approaching us.”  
The grizzled old man nodded, and spoke, “3000 men as we deemed to be earlier, only a thousand bear the Flayed Man of the Dreadfort, and they’re led by Lord Ondrew Locke’s brother, Brandon Locke, while the other, greater party of 2000 is led by Lady Barbrey Dustin and Lord Rodrick Ryswell, Daughter and Father, who no doubt shall be joining the parleying party. The Dustin-Ryswell Host has the major cavalry present; near five hundred of their number are heavy horses, while all of the Bolton Men are well-equipped footmen, apart from two score or so heavy lances. The Bolton forces are taking the role of the van, it would seem, while the rest of the forces follow them from behind.”  
Stannis clasped his fingers together, and spoke, “What can you tell me of their capabilities as commanders, Lord Umber?”  
The Umber stroked his beard, and spoke, “Brandon Locke is no great commander, I suspect he was chosen to his position merely because he is one of Roose Bolton’s greatest lapdogs, and would never choose to betray him. Rodrick Ryswell is old, but he is capable enough I suppose, while his daughter… she is a woman who knows how to nurse a grievance, and I suspect her father has indulged her in the art of warfare much as the women of Bear Island are wont to do.”  
Stannis grinded his teeth a bit at this, and he spoke, “Very well, the men have already been preparing for the siege at hand, but have them redouble their alertness, and place outriders around the castle so they can inform us if they’ve split their host and are taking the White Knife downwards, lest we be taken by surprise, as well as keep an eye to our south, lest the power of the Crannogmen finally decide to join the fray. Have the men at the hold-fasts across the Kings-road prepare as well, and send a signal to the Catapult teams to be prepared to send a volley from their positions.”  
The Umber nodded, “Very well, Your Grace, though I do not believe House Reed shall go against Stark wishes and declare for the Boltons, it is prudent as you say to keep an eye all the same.” He said, and left the room. Though his officers had told him the Crowfood was a boisterous man, it would seem a lot of that bluster had been taken out ever since the capture of the Greatjon and the death of the Smalljon.  
Over the next half-an-hour, Stannis and the men he had chosen to accompany him, along with the Lords Umber, Wull, and Flint wore their gear, and mounted their horses, accompanied by their retinue of flag-bearers, and guards, so as to treat with the party sent by the Boltons, on the Kingsroad Bridge.  
It took another ten minutes after they had left the portcullis gate of Castle Cerwyn to reach the treaty point, at which Stannis organised the men present there-in, in such a manner so as to be able to ensure an easy escape if any signs of treachery were shown, and him keeping a hand on his hilt so as to be able to blind them if it were needed.  
As they waited, a horse whickered impatiently behind him, from amidst the ranks of his men drawn up across the road. Stannis could very well hear ‘Big Bucket’ Wull laughing, and the Umbers murmur amongst themselves about what were to happen. Before long, he could see their banners flying as the riders emerged from the dead trees of the wood across the river, In a long column kicking up dirty snow as well as the remnants of leaves fallen weeks past.  
Too little banners, he thought, and clenched his jaw, as he watched the snow kick up under the hooves of the approaching horses, as they had beneath the hooves of the Frey van that had attempted to smash his own host not a week past. Stannis spoke, “Banners forward. Let us meet them.” And kicked his horse, and the rest of those behind him followed, with the Umbers taking up the spots to either side of his; When the Bolton party saw them coming, they spurred their own mounts, the few banners rippling as they rode..  
Unlike the livery of their Southron counterparts, these lords wore subdued colours of grey, black, brown, along with fur rather than any rich satins or silks a stark contrast to their coats of arms of Locke, Ryswell and Dustin. Ryswell’s banner was a black horse’s head, eyes and mane a crimson, on a bronze bordure within a black border; Dustin’s was two rusted longaxes crossed and a crown between them, signifying their descent from Barrow Kings of yore; and finally, Locke’s banner were an inversion of his House’s, signifying his being a second-son, two bronze keys crossed on a white purple on pale.

Both parties came to a grinding halt at the center of the bridge, and the silence was broken by Brandon Locke as he spoke, “Lord Stannis Baratheon, uncle of the King of the Seven Kingdoms, Tommen Baratheon, former Master-of-Ships and Lord of Dragonstone, who has risen in rebellion against the rightful ruler, we hereby provide you the following terms for your unconditional surrender:  
1\. You will retract your allegations of incest and bastardy levelled at Dowager Queen Cersei Baratheon and Ser Jaime Lannister, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and King Tommen Baratheon and Princess Myrcella Baratheon respectively. In addition to this, you will retract all claims to the Iron Throne, and recognize King Tommen as the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.  
2\. Secondly, all your men and the lords under your banner of rebellion, shall be granted fair trials by Lord Roose Bolton, Warden of the North and will also be granted the option of taking the black or going into exile to Essos. You yourself shall be escorted to King’s Landing where you shall be judged by the Small Council to decide your fate.  
3\. Thirdly, your Lady Wife, Selyse Baratheon, shall be sent to the Silent Sisters, and the Witch you cavort with, Melisandre of Asshai shall be brought to trial before the High Septon on charges of Heresy.  
4\. Fourthly, your daughter, Shireen Baratheon, shall be a ward of the Iron Throne, until she reaches the age of ten-and-six, after which she shall be married to a suitable husband so as to re-establish House Baratheon of Storm’s End, and her children shall be granted Lord Paramountship of the Storm Lands yet again.  
5\. Fifthly, and finally, you shall pay recompense to Lord Walder Frey of the Twins, for the deaths of his children, Ser Aenys, and Ser Hosteen Frey at your hands, failing which, he will be granted lands in the Stormlands to establish a cadet-branch of House Frey.  
These are our demands, Lord Stannis, and we urge you to accept these admirable terms for the good of the realm as well as your own benefit.”  
Stannis gave a short bark, a deep baritone which imitated laughter in response to this, causing the Locke to jump from his horse, and the other Lords to stare at him, for they had never seen the King laugh like this.  
“Lord Brandon Locke, it is customary to refer to the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms as Your Grace, but I shall put that aside. You would have me spread the falsehood that Tommen and Myrcella are my brother’s get, when they are no doubt the spawn of Jaime and Cersei Lannister, a truth that Jon Arryn and Eddard Stark paid with their lives for. You would have my men consigned to flaying at the hands of Bolton and his abomination of a son. You would have my wife turned into a mute-slave for the Seven, and my advisor tried for Heresy merely for following a different religion. You would have my daughter be married off to a Tyrell or to a Lannister to further deepen their thorns and their claws on the entire country. Furthermore, you would pay me with false coin about granting her children Storm’s End, when Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of His Name, whether true or false, holds it as we speak, not Tommen Waters. And as to your demand of me compensating the Late Lord Frey, I shall wonder whether you and your masters seeked to aim for the stars and landed in an asylum for the mentally unsound.” He spat, and the Lords around him, as well as his men, roared uproariously in laughter, and hoots.  
As the Locke reddened and prepared to open his mouth, Stannis spoke yet again, “Nay, whether you are a craven or a fool, it does not matter, I would wonder how you seek to force me to obey these terms, when I have a duty to re-install Stark to the wardenship of the North once Lord Eddard’s heirs are found. You seek to make me cower before you and accept your terms when you are with an army of three thousand, two thousands of which possess no little hate for you, and when my own army outnumbers yours by near three-thousand more, as well as in defense of a stout keep such as Castle Cerwyn. I defeated Victarion Greyjoy and his Iron Fleet off Fair Isle, the first time Balon crowned himself. I held Storm’s End against the power of The Reach for a year, and took Dragonstone from the Targaryens with a hastily constructed fleet. I smashed Mance Rayder at the Wall, along with his tens of thousands of wildlings though he had twenty men for each of mine. I drowned Hosteen Frey and his Weasel Host, though they had the horses, though they had the armour, though they were not starving. So tell me, what battles has Lord Brandon Locke ever won that I should acquiesce to your demands?”  
As the men behind him roared even louder, giving Stannis satisfaction in the usage of the speech that he had made yet again, Brandon Locke began to take the appearance of a fresh tomato, he spoke, “Here are my terms to you instead: you will run back to your master while your host swears loyalty to me, I will geld any and all oath-breakers in the army who took part in the Red Wedding, and I shall hand them over to those most aggrieved by the Wedding, which you shall find, to be near all of the North barring your flayed men.. I sentence your master Roose Bolton to death by my own hands, as well as his bastard-born son Ramsay Snow. I will restore a Stark to the Paramountcy of the North, as well as Wardenship though I bore no great love for the man, for I scarcely knew him, but the Lannisters are not the only ones who paid their debts for Lord Eddard did his duty by me as he rightfully tried to crown me King in his brief period of regency, and for that I must repay him by restoring his Noble House to dominion over the North. So tell me, Lord Brandon of House Locke? What say you?”  
The Locke held his tongue for three heartbeats, and then he spoke, “I spit on your demands, as would my liege lord Bolton. I suggest you prepare to use your sorcerous sword sir, for come the end of the day, you shall have need of it, until you breathe your last breath.” And saying so he made to turn, whence the Lady Dustin bid him to stop with a signal of her hands and spoke, “Aye, I must admit, I had forgotten that Lord…. No… King Stannis Baratheon is held in the same breath as the late Tywin Lannister, Randyll Tarly, Bronze Yohn Royce, and the Blackfish to be the five best commanders in Modern Westeros, and perhaps his terms are not so unreasonable.”  
Brandon turned purple from the hue of crimson that he had displayed earlier, “Hold your tongue, woman, or I shall report your insubordination to Lord Roose himself.”  
Stannis kept his silence, for this indicated possible weakness in the Bolton camp. He instead chose to observe Barbrey Dustin’s father, the Lord Ryswell, who was staring at Brandon with something akin to ferocity in his eye. Rodrik Ryswell finally spoke, “Aye, it is time to repay the coin we were lent at the Twins,”  
And at these words, Brandon panicked, but the thirty guards sworn to Ryswell and Dustin moved much faster, poking their swords and spears through their ten Bolton counterparts. While Rodrik drew his dirk and hewed through the Locke’s legs, as the man struggled to draw his longer bastard-sword. Stannis tensed at the onset of this slaughter and so did the men around him, but they all relaxed their grip ever so slightly when they realised in half-a-heartbeat that they were not the victims of the deception.  
Stannis spoke, barking orders to his soldiers, “Get the indisposed Lord Locke to treatment at Castle Cerwyn, perhaps he would have some usage as a hostage.” Before he gave a long look at the two nobles in front of him, “If this had occurred as little as half a decade ago, I would have prosecuted you for oath-breaking, but I remember the Red Wedding too well and I must leave this be. Though I wonder, what the Bolton soldiers shall think when their commander does not return?”  
Stannis waited for a response, and the Lady spoke to him, her cold, calculating gaze on his own iron one, “Aye, even at our spot at Winterfell, we saw the pillar of fire that ascended into the sky, from what could only be your magic, as well as the birth of the Second Sun that accompanied it not a moment after, and we would depend on you replicating either one of these, for our men have their commands to begin slaughtering the Bolton host, whom they outnumber, once they see your magic. They know a mild ray of light to be their signal to avert their eyes, and your sunburst to be their signal to action”  
Stannis smiled, his lip muscles straining to perform the action that they were so unfamiliar with, and drew his sword. Rodrik Ryswell held his breath momentarily before speaking, “That is a beautiful sword, if nothing else, Your Grace.”  
Stannis ignored the compliment, and spoke, “I suggest you bring your men over to this side, if you do not wish to hobble about your keeps with a cane in hand and a servant at your feet for the rest of your life from the blindness that would occur at viewing the light at such a close distance, Lord Ryswell and Lady Dustin.”  
They scrambled to obey, and Stannis raised his sword and whispered, “Ivestragī konīr sagon ōños!”  
“Let there be light” He translated the words in his mind, as a mild light raced high into the sky as those behind him shielded their eyes as well. When half-a-dozen heartbeats had passed, he spoke the High Valyrian words yet again, this time louder. And a sun was born on the kingsroad.  
Two hours later, when the Bolton host had been slaughtered down to the last man, leaving not one survivor, Stannis convened a meeting between the lords, so as to ascertain what he would do now that he had two thousand more men in his force. The clansmen firmly believed that with their numbers they could crush Bolton at Winterfell, and draw him out for a fight, as even if the Winterfell was once a strong keep, it was but a couple steps up from a ruin as it lay currently, and Bolton could not hope to defend such a ruin with the three thousand men he currently held, but the other lords cautioned that taking it with three hundred less than eight thousand would still prove costly.  
And this was setting aside the fact that Bolton still possessed hostages of several noble houses of the North, who he would not hesitate to kill. Just as he was about to speak of turning their attention to the Freys first, Lady Dustin spoke, “My lords, Your Grace, if I may?” Stannis nodded his ascent and waited for her solution.  
“We cannot take Winterfell, shell of the castle it was once it may be, as we cannot afford pitched battle or siege. Instead, I would suggest deception; we garb five hundred of His Grace’s men in Bolton colours, that we now have a bountiful supply of, and have them accompany me and my father’s men with us as the remnants of the Bolton Host. But they shall split apart from us, and we shall say they are under Brandon Locke to chastise Lord Manderly for not assisting us. We shall speak to Lord Bolton of Stannis Baratheon losing the battle of Castle Cerwyn after seven long days of battle, allowing us enough time to retrieve the bodies and inter-change their colours with our own as much as we need, as well as explaining that Your Grace fell into the White Knife, and we had to fish out your body, though your sword was lost.” She paused to breathe, and continued.  
“This body shall in reality be one of the thousand men that we treat to a bath in the river for the next few days, further giving credence to our truth. My former good-brother, Roose Bolton, shall have enough good-will with me, to release his hostages, those he calls honoured guests of Winterfell with us, and we shall leave Winterfell, leaving him with three thousand men yet again, but with no hostages.” She paused yet again, but this time to gauge the reactions of everyone else in the room it would seem.  
Stannis merely gave her a look, and nodded for her to continue, “Once we leave, the last vestiges of the Baratheon Host shall appear in front of Winterfell, numbering no more than five hundred men. And seeing this, there is no doubt that the monster that is Ramsay Snow, would take more than half of the garrison to inflict punishment and pain onto the Baratheon host., leaving Winterfell vulnerable, to not only our host to swing back and break through Winterfell from the rear, but for the false Bolton men to also join the fray, but with their colours removed so we can identify them. And finally, Your Grace can lead the rest of your host in a charge out of the Wolfswood, further smashing Ramsay snow’s host.”  
Stannis gave her a long look, and spoke, “Aye, a sound plan, and one which seems feasible, but you seem to forget, My Lady, that Ramsay Snow wants his wife, Arya Stark, as well as his, pet, the deceased Theon Greyjoy back as well. How do you propose to explain their absence?”  
He could see a look of concentration and thinking upon the faces of everyone present, when Big Bucket Wull spoke, “Lady Dustin can explain to the Bastard that King Stannis sent them away to the rest of his men at Castle Black, it could work as it is a half-truth, for Arya Stark is on her way to Castle Black anyhow. My pappy taught me that the best lies always have some measure of the truth in them, though perhaps he will need something else to further prove that our information is trustworthy.”  
Stannis grinded his teeth, and spoke slowly and deliberately, “There is one thing that may suffice.” And as the rest of the lords looked at him expectantly, he wondered whether this would be the right thing to do. “Mance Rayder, King beyond the Wall, is present in Winterfell as the bard Abel, along with six washer-women who assist him. The man whom I burnt at the wall, was a particularly disgusting creature who called himself the Lord of Bones, who wore a vest of Human Skulls like they were so many trophies, a kindred spirit, no doubt to Ramsay Snow. If you reveal this to him, he would consider the rest of the information to be true as well, perhaps inciting him further that another bastard, Jon Snow, Lord Eddard Stark’s natural-born son, had deprived him of his prizes, which would cause him to rush headlong into our ‘diminished’ Baratheon forces with further viciousness and stupidity as well as explain away their absence.”  
“Aye.” spoke Lord Ryswell, and this sentiment was echoed by everyone else, and so this would be the plan that would be enacted.  
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The Onion Lord  
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He had done the deed Lord Wyman Manderly had asked of him, he had brazed the chilly waters of the Bay of Seals in a skiff the same size as the one he had brought to the relief of Storm’s End near two decades ago. He had brazed treacherous icebergs and coves with his only companion being a mute ironborn boy. Queer Company he had initially thought, but then he remembered that both were creatures of the sea in one way or the other. He had survived near-encounters with a dozen patrols of cannibals to the location of Rickon Stark and the wildling woman who defended him. He survived a dozen more on the way back to the boat, accompanied by an excitable child, a wolf the size of a pony, and the wildling woman who bore a nasty looking spear, along with his mute ironborn companion.  
He guided the boat yet again over the treacherous sea, braving the sea, the cold winds, as well as an inquisitive wolf and its equally inquisitive master, who were both reigned in only by virtue of presence of the wildling spearwife as she called herself. He had returned to White Harbour, and was treated with praise by the Lord Glover as well as the Lord Manderly, who had returned a few days prior as him, from what the obese lord told him, was an offensive against King Stannis.  
He had jumped forward like a wounded shadow-cat then and there, and would have strangled the rotund lord, or tried to, if his hands found any purchase around the man’s wide neck, if not for Robett Glover holding him back. He had only ceased his murderous intent when Manderly insisted that he had not spilt one drop of Stannis’ men’s blood and had returned immediately instead of joining with the Frey host, who he learnt, had been drowned by Stannis, causing a twinkle in the fat lord’s eyes.  
As the port had prepared dromonds for his usage, along with fifteen hundred heavy horses, and he learnt that he was to be accompanied by Lord Glover, Lord Manderly as well as the little Lord Stark and his protectors on their journey, Davos had received news that a Bolton army marched south to besiege Castle Cerwyn, on the Western branch of the White Knife, where Stannis had made his seat of power. It was at this scenario that Davos would find himself on the deck of the lead-ship, his hand moving to his neck due to long-practiced instinct, never mind that the pouch had been lost in Blackwater Bay, as the river fleet had left White Harbour and had raced up the White Knife to make as much haste as possible in joining King Stannis’ host.  
As they disembarked onto the shore, he found to his consternation, that there were no signs of a siege, or any sign of war, and so once atleast half of the Heavy Horse, and he thought to himself, No, His Grace would not have been defeated so easily as to cause Castle Cerwyn to be unblemished? And had despaired, until the small garrison of whoever held the Castle, sent out a band of knights that were smaller still, to treat with them. As the rest of the heavy horse disembarked onto the shore, his party of lords moved forward, along with their guards to treat with the band of knights. For a moment he thought they were Bolton’s men, until he saw the lead knight was bearing the three death’s-head moths of House Horpe, indicating that it were Richard Horpe himself.  
As they finally stopped in front of each other, Horpe barked at the litter, “The Lord Manderly, though most would call you fat, I would wonder if prefixing Late to your name would incite you further. Crawl back to White Harbour, you may have thousands of men, but we are loyal to the rightful king, Stannis Baratheon. You were too late to prevent both the slaughter of the Frey host, whom we drowned gleefully, as well as the slaughter of the Bolton one. You have a better chance of pulling out a Dragon Egg from the back end of your horse then convincing us to turn to Bolton. What say you?”  
Davos rode forward, and as Ser Horpe turned to lambast him with scathing remarks as well, he stopped, his mouth agape, and was staring at Davos, having finally realised who he was. Davos ignored this and spoke “Ser Richard, you do not need to insult the Lord Manderly, he has declared for King Stannis, and we have brought to bear Fifteen Hundred heavy horse against Lord Bolton. Tell me, where is the King?”  
Ser Richard’s mouth opened up and down yet again, like a fish, for the next three heartbeats, before he spoke, “Onion Knight… I apologise, My Lord Hand, we had heard you were dead, beheaded by the Manderlys, and were directed by the King to treat the Manderlys as enemies. By what magic are you alive, My Lord? Or have the Manderlys already slain me and I find myself in the afterlife with you?”  
At this, before Davos could speak, Manderly spoke, “I must apologise for that Ser, it was shameful that I had to perform the deception of executing Lord Davos, but he was unharmed, and a criminal executed in his place. I had to do so to secure the return of my heir, and The Lord Hand offered his services in rescuing my liege lord of Stark, Rickon Stark in exchange for us declaring for King Stannis, which we do so now gladly. Though I must confess, that I would tolerate many slights, but do not give me the same name as the patriarch of the weasel brood at the Twins.”  
Davos spoke, “Aye, Ser Richard, but that is of little matter now, what matters is that all the lords east of the White Knife have declared for the King, and I bring fifteen hundred heavy horse to His Grace’s aid. Where is he?”  
Richard pointed his stub towards the North, and Davos noted that they were both short parts of their left arm now, and spoke “King Stannis has devised a cunning plan to retake Winterfell and crush Bolton once and for all; I suggest you join your strength to his immediately so we can minimize the casualties.”  
Having heard enough, Davos spoke the required pleasantries, and so did the lords who followed him. He spoke, “Lord Manderly, I suggest that you stay at Castle Cerwyn along with the Lord Stark, with a hundred of the horsemen as to risk both of your prestigious lives would draw the ire of the king onto me. Lord Glover must accompany me, along with the rest of the men, whom shall fly the sigil of King Stannis so we do not confuse our own soldiers. Tell me quickly, My Lord, whether you deem this acceptable, and whether you would give me the permission to do so.”  
Manderly looked at Davos, with what seemed to be both respect as well as neutrality I his eyes before nodding and saying, “You have my permission, Lord Hand to do exactly that. Take the men and go.”  
And so, Davos, bearing a War Lance as well as a long-sword for what would be his first cavalry charge, thundered towards Winterfell, which could be reached at a leisurely pace of half a day, would now be raced to in a matter of two hours. He was anxious, and every so often he cast a silent prayer to the Seven that the King would not lose. It was not long before they came upon the battlefield, and he could see that Stannis was winning the battle, but some of Bolton’s men were retreating directly towards them, led by a fleshy, big boned, slope shouldered man missing an arm who wore a cloak and a jerkin bearing the flayed man of House Bolton who could only be Ramsay Snow.  
Robett Glover gave the signal to charge, and Davos promised himself that he would be the one to bury the lance into Ramsay Snow, and so he charged, aligning himself to the correct angle, unimpeded by any other horseman, as they instinctually seemed to know that he wanted to slay Ramsay Snow.  
The Bolton men were trapped between a rock and a hard place, as some outright dropped their swords and dropped to their knees as they prayed for what was no doubt a quick death. Ramsay Snow on the other hand, was yelling at a group of men to stand their ground. It would not work.  
And so as the horse carried him forward, he braced his lance, and it struck true, going straight through the Bastard of the Dreadfort, penetrating mail, leather, skin, flesh, and bone as unnatural strength flowed through Davos as he continued to carry the corpse on his lance for another twenty yards before coming to a halt. Suddenly, the weight became unbearable, and he dropped the lance, with Ramsay being a few inches away from the hilt, with seven and a half feet of ash buried in him, leaving a gaping crater in his body. He looked around, and noticed that all the remnants of the Bolton men had been crushed, and he screamed, “TO THE KING!” which everyone echoed, including the foot ahead who seemed to be glad that they were allies in truth, and not enemies bearing false sigils.  
He approached a foot soldier and asked him, “WHERE IS THE KING? WHERE IS KING STANNIS?”  
The soldier spoke, “M’lord Hand, He was leading the men storming Winterfell from the front, as Lady Dustin’s host went in from the back, and our disguised men from the east.”  
Having heard enough, he drew his longsword, and raised it in an arc above his head, “TO WINTERFELL, TO THE ONE TRUE KING, and FOR LORD STARK” he spoke, the last almost an afterthought and the three score horses followed his lead, with their riders loudly echoing the words he had spoken.  
As he entered through the ruined great main gates, slashing his sword at every Bolton men that came in his path, and trampling over those who came in the path of his horse, he got off his horse, with the rest of the Manderly Men following his lead, as the horses would only impede their movement among the fallen bricks, the corpses, and the stakes. Like a well-greased carriage wheel, they moved through the castle, with him shouting “FOR STANNIS!” along the way, which Baratheon men, and clansmen echoed, as they followed, slaughtering what remained of Bolton men, as they passed through the Smithy, passed the Stables, cleared the base of the Library Tower, before finally arriving at the main courtyard.  
There was no fighting here, even though the song of steel and blood echoed throughout the rest of the castle, dimming over time as the Bolton Men met their ends. What he saw rankled him, as at the feet of a seated man he saw a body. MY KING! He thought, before realising the decapitated body was far too unremarkable, and had a pasty skin, and was wearing Bolton livery, indicating that this was Lord Roose Bolton.  
But then he saw the man on the chair, tall, broad-shouldered and sinewy, and with hollow cheeks and thin pale lips. He saw the tell-tale fringe of black hair, which so resembled the shadow of a crown, and the close-cropped beard across his large jaw. The King, he thought, and he then saw that a glowing sword laid in the ground between body and head, indicating that the King had executed Lord Bolton.  
But then he saw of the nine persons around King Stannis, three wore chains about their necks, indicating they were maesters. And then he saw the broken shaft of the arrow buried in Stannis’ shoulders, and as he came closer still, he saw that there was a large gash across Stannis’ stomach, having penetrated plate, mail, and vest.  
He threw his helmet to the ground and rushed to the king, and the guards who surrounded him momentarily tried to stop him before they realised who he was.  
He shrieked “MY KING! KING STANNIS!” and Stannis opened his eyes and tried to get up at what he saw. Stannis nearly fell, but Davos caught him, and cradled him in his lap. Davos noted that tears were forming in his eyes, but he ignored them as he king spoke. Davos observed his king’s face, and noted that Stannis had grown gaunter still, but not weak, never weak, as his iron gaze still bore into Davos’ skull, though momentarily softened “Davos? My Lord Hand? My Onion Knight? How are you here? Manderly killed you…. Am I dead too?”  
Davos spoke, his grief shaking his words, “N…no.. no Your Grace, I did not die, Lord Manderly faked my execution, and he bid me rescue his liege lord, Rickon Stark, who had survived the sack by Ramsay Bolton, so he would declare for you. I did so, and Manderly sent with me near a thousand and half heavy horse to come to your aid. But the fool I was, I came too late.”  
Stannis laughed, the deep baritone echoing through the air, and the sound was both incredibly pleasant and horrifying, for it was something his King never did. The king grimaced, the laughter no doubt inflaming the pain he felt in his abdomen before speaking, “Not too late, Davos… not too late. Justin Massey goes to recruit sellswords in Braavos, and tells me he would aim for the Company of the Rose. The Iron Islands will devolve into conflict, and the North does not forget. You shall seat Shireen on the Iron Throne…. Or at the very least… secure an alliance with Aegon the Sixth in the South so she may remain Lady Paramount of the Stormlands.”  
Davos spoke, confusion about him, “Aegon… the Sixth, Your Grace?”  
Stannis grimaced again, and Davos could hear the grinding of his teeth, as he spoke, “Aye, if a Baratheon shall not sit the throne, a Baratheon shall aid a Targaryen to sit the throne. My daughter is descended from the line of Rhaelle Targaryen, and my father was cousin to Aerys the Mad, she would be a heir to any Targaryen Claimant whether it would make her third in the line of succession if Aegon is true, and second if he is false, as she would then be the heir to Daenerys Targaryen, is irrelevant. I once forswore duty to the crown to follow the duty to my family, I would have Shireen do the opposite if she cannot sit, as she might be the Last Baratheon claimant, but I am not so fool as to think every man will as readily follow her as they did me, if that can be called readily following me.”  
As Stannis coughed and winced, Davos noticed that the battle had completely ended, and there were lords and ladies approaching him. Stannis spoke again, “Aye, Eddard Stark died in an attempt to crown me, and I die in an attempt to free his home, though my venture was successful.”  
Davos spoke, “No… No Your Grace, you shall not die, there are not one but three Maesters here, they can nurse you back to health.”  
Stannis spoke, “Nay, they would feed me, honey, milk of the poppy and dream-wine, keep me insensate for the next two weeks as they fail in healing me for they have said as much. That my wounds are far too severe, and I am expected to die within the fortnight if tended to like that, which is the only option they have.”  
Stannis stared behind Davos, and spoke, “Tell me, Lords of the North, what you would call me as you bury me? Where would you bury me? Am I a means to an end that you are glad is dead, and would see my body buried under an unnamed hill?”  
The voice that responded was a woman’s, “No, Your Grace, we would bury you amidst the Starks, a decision all the lords agree with, we would call you the King who Cared, who forsook a losing battle in the South, to pull the North out of the pit of barbarity the Boltons had plunged us into, and sacrificed his own life to do so. You would have a place next to Lord Eddard himself, a Hand and a King of different times but who aided each other, laid to rest side by side.”  
Stannis stared at her, and nodded once, “Aye, a good end, Robert may even kick me in the afterlife for stealing his place next to his brother by choice, but I do not care a whit.”  
Stannis then affixed Davos with that iron stare, “No Davos, I do not plan to die in two weeks, with my wits and knowledge fleeing me like an addled old man. No, you shall take Lightbringer, the gift from the Red Priest to her supposed Prince who was Promised, and you shall drive it into my heart, and nowhere else.”  
Davos was shaking, “No… my Lord, I mean… Your Grace you cannot ask me to do this… I… love you as the brother I never had, Your Grace, if you would allow Davos of Flea Bottom to call Lord Stannis of Storm’s End so.”  
Stannis spoke, his mouth in an odd shape, “Aye… I would allow it, and I have been a poor brother to you, Davos of Fleabottom, the missing fingers from your hand are evidence to the same. But nevertheless, you will plunge it into my heart, and your aim will not err. It will be a quick and painless death, and the Sword’s magic should finally be satisfied at tasting King’s blood if nothing else. Now… Brother, do your duty, your King commands it, you shall drive the sword through my heart, and the northern lords shall bury me in the Crypt as soon as it is possible.”  
Davos wanted to argue, wanted to say no, wanted to run-away, but… he could not betray his King.. his Lord… his brother…. who he’d braved dangers like no other for. And as he moved without, the King took the support of a Northern Lord, a man wearing a snow-bear’s pelt to get up.  
He grabbed the sword… Lightbringer, and his hands shook as he reached down for it. But he would not dishonour the King, and so he steeled himself, tears still burning hot in his eyes as they flowed downwards.  
The Northern Lords observed it with a quiet dignity, for if nothing else they truly respected King Stannis, and a large man who appeared to be the first lord’s brother, helped Stannis in removing the useless Plate, Mail and Vest, so that there would be no resistance to the Sword.  
Finally, he gave a stare into the King’s eyes, and he noted a single drop fall from the left eye of the King whilst he nodded at Davos, and so Davos moved forward and plunged the sword into Stannis’ heart.  
Stannis winced, and for half a heart-beat, Davos thought he had done a mistake, but then Stannis closed his eyes, a look of satisfaction etched on his face and passed. The brothers gently lowered him back to the ground, and Davos moved to pull the sword out. What happened next was the impossible.  
The sword was aflame, and the brother lords, Umbers he finally recalled, had jumped back, with a yelp of shock. He could feel the heat about him, but his hand was unburnt, and so he recalled the tale Melisandre of Asshai had regaled him with, how Lightbringer was finally forged when Azor Ahai had plunged his blade into Nissa Nissa’s breast, she who he loved best. And he wept harder, for he realised that prophecies were fickle things, and the night was dark and full of terrors, and he would have to fight for the dawn.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that was a tale and a half if I say so myself. Credits to Cantuse of https://cantuse.wordpress.com/2014/08/28/the-night-lamp-revisited-the-wrath-of-the-old-and-the-new/ for the Night-Lamp theory.  
> Credits to George R R Martin, who owns A Song of Ice and Fire in its entirety.  
> Credits to u/FollowTheBeard on r/gameofthrones and r/asoiaf as well for the theory that Ser Davos, who was reborn amidst salt and smoke under the red comet is the Prince who Was Promised, though I personally believe that the Golden-Hand version of the theory also applies to Davos, who lost his hand for an act-of-golden heart, in rescuing Storm’s End and Stannis from famine.  
> I do hope I did justice to Martin’s Work, and I hope you enjoyed this one shot.


End file.
